Sixty Four
by TheMissMod
Summary: February 7th, 1964. The Beatles invade America. Ruth is stuck at her cousin's wedding, it's Annie's first day at work and Jo is under house arrest. So, how do these three girls from Liverpool end up in New York?
1. Author's Note

A/N: The following is a Beatles story. It is only categorised as 'Across The Universe' because there is no Beatles category. There should be one.

Please enjoy responsibly. Thank you.


	2. It Won't Be Long

Early morning descended on New York City, fine clouds appearing in the dull sky.

The street was littered with NYPD vehicles. The shutters were down on most of the shops in the street, the sidewalks completely deserted but for the footsteps of Policemen. Three Officers hauled sturdy metal barricades into place on the sidewalk while two others placed orange safety cones in threes on the street corners.

Traffic was being diverted, but there were no signs to alert drivers of any sort of diversion - only the tall, burly Police Chief who, with regimental stiffness, chopped his hand at each passing car.

A domestic goods store began to let up its shutters. The early morning sunlight glanced off the window, glamorizing the sight of the young girl leaning over the row of televisions on display, slapping each one with a duster. The girl moved on to a group of vaccuum cleaners set next to washing machines. She huffed and hopped up onto one of the washing machines, the duster slung over her shoulder, her legs swinging.

A few guests milled around the foyer of The Plaza Hotel, all busily buried in their own loudly private conversations.  
>At the reception desk, the secretary had her head down, working away on a Royal typewriter. A concierge rushed by, carrying four large bags, his face flushed light pink with effort. The secretary pulled the now finished paper from the typewriter and inspected the page for smudges. Satisfied, she cast the paper aside, tapping her peach-painted nails against the marble-top counter. Her eyes scanned the foyer for any sign of management staff - the area was clear. She slipped her hand into her bag and pulled out a compact mirror, face powder and lipstick. Touching up her makeup and fluffing her already stiffly coiffed and lacquered hair, she smiled at her mirror snapped shut and her hands slammed back down onto her typewriter as the Hotelier walked past her desk.<p>

He breezed into the Palm Court Restaurant, his dark suit and stoic manner reminiscent of Clark Gable. Fetching a cut-glass tumbler from a dark wood cabinet, he mixed up an Old Fashioned and paced back and forth in a continuous loop, his eyes fixed on the window and out towards the Police Officers and the now cordoned off street in front of the Hotel. He pursed his lips and his eyes rose to the heavens before taking a final large gulp of his Old Fashioned and setting the glass back down atop the cabinet.

The countdown was in motion. It was only a matter of hours until sheer chaos ripped through the city. Only a matter of hours until the busiest week at The Plaza Hotel began.


	3. Jo

A needle stuttered against a vinyl record. The record player was surrounded by scattered album sleeves, the entire dressing table in orderly chaos. The bedroom door clicked open. Jo Hinchcliff was imprisoned once again. Dressed casually in black drainpipe jeans and a black rollneck sweater, her dark brown hair backcombed into a flip, she inspected the state of her eyeliner and frosted pink lipstick for a moment, and then deftly swiped her hand onto the arm of the needle. It dropped onto the record with a staccato pop.  
>This wasn't the first time Jo was under house arrest - she had a talent for trouble, and prided herself on being the female counterpart of Steve McQueen. It was the little things she was good at - subtly moving a desk in the classroom, slipping through corridors unnoticed, dropping records into her satchel when the salesman was only a foot away. It occurred to her when she turned thirteen that being daring would get her far in life, much to the contrary opinion of her parents. All the good girls in her school were likely to become the poster-wives of Liverpool, and Jo didn't want that. She'd been the shameful subject on the council agenda when her mother had announced her daughter's wish to go to Art School. Jo would be famous for something, whether it was art or dance or, as was more likely, unbridled rebellion.<p>

Flopping onto the bed as 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' begins to play, Jo crossed her legs, feet bobbing to the music, hands behind her head. Her eyes flitted across the magazine pull-outs tacked to the floral wallpaper - Troy Donahue, James Dean, Billy Fury, and then to the pictures by the door. An entire wall plastered with pictures of The Beatles, the central image a headshot of Paul McCartney. She smiled coyly and her eyes met the picture as though she were staring at him in the flesh. A heavy blush peppered her cheeks and she rose from the bed, dancing across the room and slamming herself against the door, a longing gaze thrown at the picture again. She bit her lip and slid half-way down the door. Then, a loud bang.

The song stopped mid-chorus. The door opened and she was forced to return to normalcy as her father greeted her with a stern expression and ushered her downstairs, where the soundtrack to this particular dinnertime was the awkward clink and scrape of glasses and cutlery in a silent dining room.

Jo pushed food around her plate and then her hands dropped. She twiddled her thumbs under the table, staring concentratedly at the vase of roses at the centre of the table. Her thumb rubbed over the circular ink stamp on her left hand - an entry stamp from The Cavern Club. Fighting a grin, she rose from the table and thudded upstairs. Her parents were left staring in confusion at the empty seat. Of course, they couldn't possibly know the significance today held.

February 7th, 1964. The day The Beatles were going to America.

Back in her bedroom, the music continued. Jo knew that the footage of The Beatles arriving in the US would be on television soon, but the only television in the house was downstairs, and her father always turned it off at this hour, so that the family could trudge upstairs to bed. The key to this particular scheme was timing and patience. All she had to do was wait for the perfect time to slip away.

Jo perched herself on the end of her bed, crossing and uncrossing her legs, unable to bear the silence. She wrung her hands together and bit her lip for the millionth time, restless with tension as her parents' footsteps came into earshot. They moved past her door and the hollow click that echoed through her wall told her that their bedroom door had closed. Almost immediately she reached under her bed and pulled a white leather suitcase onto the covers. Ticking off each packed item on her fingers and turning to the chest of drawers underneath her dressing table, the top drawer slid open with careful silence.

A plane ticket. New York City, John F. Kennedy International Airport, 8:00pm.


	4. Ruth

If one thing was absolutely certain, it was this - Ruth Alcock could not spend one more minute in her ghastly olive frock. Her twenty-three year old sister Margaret had just left the church with her new husband, and now here everyone was, doomed to spend the evening suffocating under pastel-coloured polyester cotton and plate after plate of cheese and pineapple cubes. Arching her back in the stiff dress, Ruth put on her best smile as Margaret beamed at her from across the living room. This wouldn't do at all. No boys had asked her to dance, and that was mainly to do with the lack of actual boys - she was surrounded by round-faced toddlers in pretentious-looking morning suits. Even the music seemed dull to her, and some of her favourite songs sounded flat and uninteresting when put in the context of her sister's wedding reception. The songs were special in the privacy of her own room, where she could fantasise about the singers and live in her own little world for those precious three minutes, but outside of that, it just seemed wrong.

"Doesn't your sister look lovely?" Her mother cooed, a cocktail stick raised in salute to Margaret.

"Always." Ruth replied, her eyes glassy - she was going to that special place in the top of her head again.

"It's been a wonderful day. They both look so happy!"

Ruth fought the compulsion to say "I'm not!" and instead flashed a weak smile at her mother. With that quick turn of her head, she caught the whiff of pungent alcohol. How anyone could stomach the stuff, she would never know. Frowning at the sight of the amber liquid, Ruth jumped out of her seat and within seconds, Margaret had materialised out of nowhere, pulling her away to dance. The large bakelite clock on the wall came into Ruth's peripheral vision, and, unable to stop herself, she gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth.

"Ruth?" Margaret bent down to her sister's level, her brow furrowed in concern. "What ever is the matter?"

"It's half past seven." She said matter-of-factly.

Margaret's hips slackened and her eyes narrowed as she tried to fathom the meaning behind her sister's shock. Then it suddenly hit her, and with a deafening screech, she threw her arms up and shuffled across the room, right to where her father was sitting.

"Dad! Can we watch the television? We need it, please say we can!" Her voice was higher, her pace quickened. The excitement was almost too much.

"What on earth..." Her father scratched at his hair and yawned before it finally clicked in his brain. "I'll go and switch it on." He sighed, rising with defeat from his chair.

Ten minutes later, tapping her glass with a fork, Margaret called for the attention of the wedding party.

"Everyone, we are now locating to the kitchen, where we will watch the television!"

The guests followed Margaret with baffled expressions on their faces - everyone had been rather happy drinking alcohol and dancing to records! Nevertheless, the bride's word was final on her wedding day, and so here they all were, huddled together in the kitchen as the television flickered into life.

"Did we miss it?" Margaret was hopping frantically on the balls of her feet as the reporter read every single news story but the one that she and Ruth wanted. Then, relief.

_"And finally this evening, The Beatles arrive in America. The Liverpool group touched down a few minutes ago and are set to entertain the American masses over the next two weeks, and it has been reported that over three thousand US fans were there to greet them at John F. Kennedy International Airport."_

Unbeknownst to the wedding party, the news broadcast was a klaxon call to Ruth, and as they were gathered in the kitchen, Ruth had managed to slip away. Instead of grabbing the house key from the vase in the hallway, she had opted for a more discreet disappearance, running upstairs to stuff a few items of clothing into an old satchel. Her swift, silent escape was made by popping her bedroom window out of the frame and shimmying down the drainpipe onto the cobbled street below.


End file.
